Glasshouses

The television screens were all split in half today. On one side of the screens were familiar images of protestors hurling stones at the police and receiving tear gas in return. On the other side were middle-class political pundits waxing eloquently about what the government, opposition leaders, and demonstrators ought or ought not to do…

The ghetto youth spent the entire day on the streets, chanting and hurling stones, ducking policemen’s batons and water cannons, and breathing in tear gas whose long-term effects no one ever speaks of. I watched a young man and his three-year-old son, with towels draped around their waists, join a group of demonstrators to protest the high cost of living. I also watched scores of policemen dressed in riot gear parade the streets of ghettos like Mathare and Kibera, ready to quell the riots the minute they began. I watched opposition leaders snake their way from one ghetto to the next under a cloud of tear gas with journalists in their wake. But there was no sign of the leaders currently in government or our middle-class population.

All the while, we sat pretty in our “middle-class” homes, surrounded by our beautiful possessions, bemoaning the sad state of affairs and the reluctance of our leaders to amicably sort out their differences. And tonight, as our youths wearily lie down on their beds and in police cells, wounded and hungry, we tuck our children in bed, wish them a good night and promise them they can go to school tomorrow since the “hooligans” will not be out on the streets.

Who will fight our battles when the “hooligans” decide to down their stones and stay indoors with their children?